“Equally!” said Weisspriess, and pulled out the length of his moustache.

“Equally courageous,” Lena corrected herself.  “I never distrusted Count Ammiani’s courage, nor could distrust yours.”

“Equally dear!” Weisspriess tried to direct a concentrated gaze on her.

Lena evaded an answer by speaking of the rumour of Count Ammiani’s marriage.

Weisspriess was thinking with all the sagacious penetration of the military mind, that perhaps this sister was trying to tell him that she would be willing to usurp the piece of the other in his affections; and if so, why should she not?

“I may cherish the idea that I am dear to you, Countess Lena?”

“When you are formally betrothed to my sister, you will know you are very dear to me, Major Weisspriess.”

“But,” said he, perceiving his error, “how many persons am I to call out before she will consent to a formal betrothal?”

Lena was half smiling at the little tentative bit of sentiment she had so easily turned aside.  Her advice to him was to refuse to fight, seeing that he had done sufficient for glory and his good name.

He mentioned Major Nagen as a rival.

Upon this she said:  “Hear me one minute.  I was in my sister’s bed-room on the first night when she knew of your lying wounded in the Ultenthal.  She told you just now that she called you Austria.  She adores our Austria in you.  The thought that you had been vanquished seemed like our Austria vanquished, and she is so strong for Austria that it is really out of her power to fancy you as defeated without suspecting foul play.  So when she makes you fight, she thinks you safe.  Many are to go down because you have gone down.  Do you not see?  And now, Major Weisspriess, I need not expose my sister to you any more, I hope, or depreciate Major Nagen for your satisfaction.”

Weisspriess had no other interview with Anna for several days.  She shunned him openly.  Her carriage moved off when he advanced to meet her at the parade, or review of arms; and she did not scruple to speak in public with Major Nagen, in the manner of those who have begun to speak together in private.  The offender received his punishment gracefully, as men will who have been taught that it flatters them.  He refused every challenge.  From Carlo Ammiani there came not a word.

It would have been a deadly lull to any fiery temperament engaged in plotting to destroy a victim, but Anna had the patience of hatred—­that absolute malignity which can measure its exultation rather by the gathering of its power to harm than by striking.  She could lay it aside, or sink it to the bottom of her emotions, at will, when circumstances appeared against it.  And she could do this without fretful regrets, without looking to the future.  The spirit of her hatred extracted its own nourishment from things, like an organized creature.  When foiled she became passive, and she enjoyed—­forced